The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. ‘You will keep yourself utterly quiet,’ he instructed, a growl in her ear as they headed for the door. As he fell, he caught at the projecting masonry. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you.
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